


'a dear friend'

by Aestheticdenbrough



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Character Development, Dead People, Father Figures, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Funeral, Gay Panic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internal Conflict, Meet-Cute, Multi, Social Issues, Swimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21895729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aestheticdenbrough/pseuds/Aestheticdenbrough
Summary: It’s 7:30 in the morning on a Wednesday when Bill’s eyes scan around the room, looking for something comfortable to train his eyes on. After the death of their father at the age of seventeen, most eyes would be swimming in tears sitting in the funeral home, trying to decide which blurry picture to use as the memorial card. Regardless, Bill Denbrough’s eyes are dry. It’s not that he hated Zack Denbrough, but he feels as if for the past six years, he hasn’t known him, and his view up until age eleven would have been very biased. Most little boys want to grow up just like their fathers, and Bill used to, even when he wasn’t someone to look up to.in other words, au where the losers meet in high school in a youth therapy group.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Like family, but not like family

It’s 7:30 in the morning on a Wednesday when Bill’s eyes scan around the room, looking for something comfortable to train his eyes on. After the death of their father at the age of seventeen, most eyes would be swimming in tears sitting in the funeral home, trying to decide which blurry picture to use as the memorial card. Regardless, Bill Denbrough’s eyes are dry. It’s not that he hated Zack Denbrough, but he feels as if for the past six years, he hasn’t known him, and his view up until age eleven would have been very biased. Most little boys want to grow up just like their fathers, and Bill used to, even when he wasn’t someone to look up to.

Mr. Denbrough died at the age of 45 from liver failure, after a damn near lifetime of being an alcoholic. Bill made the decision when he was 14 never to touch a bottle of liquor, and not to get very drunk. Now, he’d realized, is the time to know I don’t want to be him.

Meanwhile, Sharon is sitting near him with a chair in between, so drunk that Bill’s quite sure she’s sweating booze.

He turns his attention back to the funeral director, who’s going on about the pros and cons of cremation. Despite the serious mood, Bill chuckles in remembrance of what Richie had said to him the other day. “He should totally get cremated, all the vodka will have him up in flames in no time!” man, Richie could be a dick, and he doesn’t think before he speaks, and always smells like ax bodyspray, but honestly, Bill doesn’t know what he’d do without the kid.

“Mr. Denbrough, you alright?” Mr. Conch asks him in his even voice. Bill looks him in the eyes and nods.

“I’m just really in my head,” he says slowly, floating back into the real world. Between his lag and his red eyes, he’s sure now that it’s obvious he’s high. And with his mother with tear-stained cheeks looking disassociated, it’s obvious that Mr. Conch is about to say what comes out of his mouth next.

“How about I call tomorrow? You’ve both had a long week and probably need some time alone,” he says amiably, closing the book he’d been reading from. “We have until Monday and as long as you send me the information I can take care of things here. We want to make this transition as easy as possible on you two. Go home, rest” he insists, standing up from his chair to make it clear he’s serious. 

Sharon collects her coat and puts it on, putting her purse over her shoulder and making her way out, not watching to see if Bill is following. He hurries himself to get up and follow but Mr. Conch stops him with a hand on his shoulder, silently handing him a pamphlet. “Teen Substance Abuse and the Risks.” he embarrassedly puts it away in his pocket before he’s handed a business card that he doesn’t read until he’s on his way out back to his truck to drive he and his mom home. “Grief Management Youth Group.” before he opens the car door he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Hey, Siri, can you s-save a date and time r-r-reminder for me?” he puts in the date for the next meeting based on the schedule on the card. He opens the driver’s side door and gets in.

Two days later, the sun is up and Bill gets out of bed, the funeral isn’t for three more days and nothing feels quite real yet. He feels as if he’s living in a diorama, he’s walking through a fake version of his world. With this coincidence, his phone goes off as he gets fresh clothes on after a shower. “Youth Group Thing” the screen reads as it rings. And even more surprisingly, he puts on his shoes and decides to go.

He listens to the radio on the way to the library where the meetings take place, parking close to the front as it’s early enough in the morning not to be busy yet. He shoves his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and walks down to the conference room, a few teens already sitting on chairs and talking. Before he walks in he peers through the window at each of them, none of them sitting properly on their chairs.

He opens the door and walks in, looking down at first and looking up once he’s in. “Hi, I g-got r-referred here, am I e-e-early?” he asks, not seeing anything formally going on. His face is flushed from the embarrassment of seemingly being the only new kid.

“No, this is it,” a girl in a beanie says with a pop of her gum. “You know this town, the guy supposed to talk to us never shows,” she says with a scoff. Bill starts to walk closer to sit in a chair and she stops him. “Name and state of orphanhood,” she says as she points a firm finger at him.

“William Denbrough. Lost my dad a few days ago,” he says, standing up a little straighter but averting his eyes and licking his chapped lips awkwardly. He shifts his weight to his left foot instead of his right and looks at the floor after a moment. 

“Bev, chill out,” A taller teen boy says, he’s rather handsome and Bill recognizes him as being known as the only black kid in town. He’s never met him, but he’s also never judged, most of the teens don’t, they’re not as closed-minded as the adults of the small town of Derry, Maine. “Go easy on ‘im, fishes are friends, not food,” he starts to chuckle as he speaks and by the end of the sentence they’re all cracking up. All but Bill. It only makes sense, they know each other well enough to have inside jokes.

Bill finally takes a seat in a chair, one not next to anyone else. “Hey, might not want to get too comfortable, we’re heading out soon, Friday adventures,” one boy with dark roots and blond hair grins. He’s shorter than the others, almost looks younger, but the look in his eyes portrays something like wisdom. 

“Fr-Friday adventures?” Bill asks, tumbling over the words even in such a short statement. Damn this stutter, damn his mom honestly, and damn the car accident she blames it on. He’d try and say it’s a nervous tick, but it happens even when he’s not consciously nervous, deep-rooted anxiety that he doesn’t know how to quiet. “Don’t w-we sit here and like, talk ab-bout how we feel about the p-p-people we’ve lost?” he asks, knowing that’s what was advertised to him, and it was something he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to. Maybe this is better, that is if they let him come with. The idea of “adventures” always strikes an intrigue in him.

“Not without a moderator,” shrugs another boy with a soft and plump face and an almost forlorn voice, shoving his phone into his sweatshirt pocket and standing up, “Mike, can I come with to go warm up the car?” he asks suddenly. He doesn’t seem to want to sit around here and talk anymore, Bill gets the idea that the boy doesn’t want to answer any more of his questions, and almost the cold breeze of being unwelcomed. 

“I can uh- l-l-leave? I don’t th-think five people c-can fit in a car,” Bill gets up suddenly in contrast to his soft words. His body is tall and lanky and he’s not quite in his mind enough to control it less clumsily. He’s about to put his hands in his pockets and walk out when the supposed Mike blocks the door. 

“Nah, you can have shotgun, you look like you need it. And five seat just fine, especially with tiny Eddie who’s so kind as to sit in the middle so we’re not all squished,” Mike offers, grinning in the direction of the boy with the dark roots, that must be Eddie.

“Fuck you,” Eddie says as dimly as he can and nonchalantly raises his left middle finger before he finally breaks the act and cracks a smile. “Beverly isn’t allowed to smoke next to me though, she’ll have to go a ride without a cig,” he says in a fake sympathetic voice geared at her with a matching overexaggerated expression. Then the boy gets up and Bill almost chuckles out loud, he can’t be any taller than 5’3, which Bill can’t judge much at 5’8, but he still is a good head above him.

Bev suddenly gets up from her seat (rather extravagantly as she’d been truly sitting as if she was a contortionist). “Careful red, we already have a ginger here,” she says with a playful smile and rustling the hair on the top of his head confidently. “It’s time to go. Mike said you can have shotgun but I get it on the way back,” she runs herself with such power that Bill can only nod in response to her sureness. He’ll have to be a bit careful of her, seemingly the fireball of the group, and fireball burns going down. Mike good cop, Beverly bad cop.

It takes them over a half an hour but they all get comfortable in the car, none of them but Mike and Eddie are buckled, and the pudgy boy with the sort of bowl cut is still quiet until they’re about to pair Eddie’s phone to the Bluetooth because he has Spotify premium. “So, your name is Bill, but what are you into? We usually dick around at the arcade, it’s bum empty during school hours. But it’s sunny enough to introduce you to the quarry if you don’t mind getting your jeans wet. I’m Ben by the way,” he introduces, with the new statement from Ben, Bill begins to realize that nobody in this group is really genuinely in charge, he likes that. 

“God I don’t care if he wants to stay dry, I need a swim,” Mike laughs, kicking the car in the gas pedal and wheezing it to a start, backing out of the library parking lot and down the road to a turn Bill’s never noticed before.

It’s an unpaved road, more of an extra-wide trail, but there are tire marks from the obvious times they’ve come through before. The trees are starting to turn yellows and reds and oranges, a drive through the forest like this is like walking through a painting of warmth, the sunlight peeking through and showing drier patches of dirt. It’s beautiful, and he has no idea how he hasn’t seen it before. The drive seems longer than it really is, soaking up all the beauty Bill can take enough brainpower to slow down time.

Then comes a clearing of trees, showing a cliff that drops off into a sinkhole, rocks, and branches coming out the sides on the way down from the greenery that had been there when the sinkhole developed. Before Bill has even taken in the scenic view, the others are climbing out of the car and pulling off their shirts and pants, “Don’t worry, Bill, we’ve got towels in the trunk for days like this,” Mike calls back as he makes a run for the cliff’s edge, his sound draining away as his body falls from the cliff to the water with a hearty splash.

Bill nods to himself, now taking off his sneakers and his clothes behind a tree. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, and they’ll see his body in the water anyway, but he’s insecure, new, and scrawny as all get out. He runs his hands up and down his ribs, sometimes imagining them as a hidden xylophone in his chest, he wonders if he hit them hard enough with one of the paddles if they would be in tune. Richie says those thoughts are too dark, and they can lead to self-destructive behavior, but Bill simply sees it as a creative mind coming up with something others aren’t ready for yet.

He slips off his socks and walks out into the clearing. Then, he bolts forward to soar over the edge of the cliff, falling, falling, diving into something he’s never known before, trust and friendship. They’re a quirky bunch and he’s not sure where he’ll fit in, but they were kind enough to include him, and now he’s giving in. it’s been a bad week and he hasn’t felt this free in months despite it being summer. His bike broke two years ago, and he hasn’t found the right fit. So now, this feeling. The feeling of the wind in his face, the weightlessness.

Despite the molasses-like state of time, Monday still comes. Bill buttons up his black shirt and pulls on a pair of black jeans, he can’t remember the last time that he had a pair of dress pants that didn’t rest far above his ankles, he really needs to go clothing shopping. To top it all off, a pair of worn out Vans. he looks at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, combing back his hair into a bit of a messy man bun at the back of his head. His dad never liked his hair long, he feels like he ought to pull it back out of respect. He learned a lot about funerals and respect when Georgie died. He may not care as much about the person his dad was, but he respects the process. Really, he’s unsure if he could call his parents parents. He’d read in a poetry book once that said there is no such thing as alcoholic parents, just people who can’t put their drinks down long enough to raise their child. He partially agrees with it, he knows his mom doesn’t actually know him, and he’s sure his dad didn’t either. 

When he’s ready and it’s time to go, he puts his phone in his pants pocket and goes to fetch his mother, who is ready as opposed to still in bed as he’d expected. Maybe his parents did care about stuff, that stuff just isn’t him.

The drive is nearly silent until he’s parking in the parking lot, even when he misses a few exits on the way. His mom doesn’t criticize his driving, but as he starts to unbuckle his seatbelt and unlock the car, she hisses to him in a low voice. “Don’t embarrass us.” before he can even respond, she’s getting out of the car and hurrying into the building.

Bill follows slowly behind her, first pulling the door and then realizing it’s a pull door. He really doesn’t know where his mind is today. Somehow the funeral home feels dimmer than it has any other times he’s been here when the lighting realistically hasn’t changed at all. The room where the funeral will take place is off a door to the left, he’d seen his dad’s cold, pale body in the door a straight path from the front door. Something about final viewing before cremation. Georgie was buried, but Bill assumes because his dad wanted the reminder that he’d lost his son as far as he could keep it, it would have been Sharon who hoped for cremation. Why? Because she couldn’t even bear to touch a hair on one of the boy’s stuffed animals, it must all be how he’d have it, how the memories would be triggered more easily.

He has to stand in the room for several hours, giving and receiving hugs from family and friends. Being the close family at a funeral is probably the worst role to be, except for maybe the dead one. But is that so bad? They always talk about heaven, isn’t death supposed to be the most peaceful? But here in a room full of people he has to stop thinking about that before he gets more red in the face and flustered.

Then is the actual ceremony with only who was close to him, and to be honest, Bill zoned out. And he pretended to be too sad to speak when he was offered the microphone, when you have a stutter you can make excuses like that really easily. Afterward he lingers outside the room where his relatives are eating.

It’s almost like fate that the gang of hooligans he hung out with the other day all walk in then. Or was it? They’d met Bill, looked up his dad’s funeral, and decided to show up after to pick him up. It’s not like they could have texted him first, not a single one of them had managed to get his phone number on the day they’d met.

They don’t need to say anything until he breaks down in tears, enough has built up and he doesn’t even know why at this point. First Beverly hugs him, and that really shocks him because she was so standoff-ish at first. He accepts the hug gratefully though, almost melting against her as Mike comes up and joins. And before long, they’re all hugging around his shaking form in the lobby of the funeral home. It’s unconventional, but it’s just what he needed.


	2. Consumerism Runs The Nation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie never wanted to grow up until he really started to. Then he grew up way too fast, trying to be cool and hip and popular.
> 
> Despite this, he's still not conventionally attractive or charismatic, and he's a long journey away from realizing that maybe that's just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Hopefully I'm back in my writing groove, kudos and comments are much appreciated!

Growing up happens to everyone, as long as they make it to “growing up age”, and most even make it to “grown up” age. For Richie, as a kid, he always had big plans of becoming a puppeteer, or a comedian, or one of those guys who spins signs for the Subway down the street. Advertising five dollar foot longs with a sign that’s probably five feet long. The first thing people ever thought Richie was cool for was when he burped the whole alphabet in kindergarten, even if he threw up after.

And now, people usually think he’s lame. He’s not noticable, he’s Richie Tozier with the big glasses and bad teeth. It’s when he’s sixteen that despite the warnings of pain, Richie insists his dad give him braces. And now? He’s trashmouth, metalmouth, four-eyes Tozier. It’s never -“oh Richie, you drew up a good father’s day card, let’s put it up on the fridge,”- now it’s always,- “Richie, you’re sixteen why can you still not color in the lines you’ve drawn down yourself?” Well fuck Wentworth, it’s a creative stylistic choice.

He misses the days when his parents were his best friends and his mom would sneak him ice cream in bed after a hard day. But by now his peers have taught him to rip himself away from them to be “cooler”. But now he’s still not cool, but his home life can be cold.

He can feel them wanting things to be okay with him again, and he wants that too, but both parties are too stubborn and too awkward to take the first step to lead them in the right direction. So now he’s lying on his bed half dressed and waiting for Bill to get out of his Youth Grief Group so he’ll get a text back and hopefully someone to hang out with. He tosses his phone to the other side of his bed after sending another hopeful message with no response. He wiggles his toes in his glow in the dark alien socks and gets up to finish getting dressed. 

Bill doesn’t respond in the next hour, go figures. He’s been annoyingly distant recently. Sure, Richie’s never lost anyone of significance to him, but he’s sure death can’t be all that bad, most teens would accept their own gratefully. At least from the memes he sees on twitter. Being alone for the third day in a row, Richie decides that he needs to get out and do something on his own for his own sanity’s sake.

He decides on the arcade as he pulls on the Supreme sweatshirt he’d begged is parents for for months. Or, well, he begged Wentworth for a few weeks before his birthday but it felt so much longer than that because at the time he’d absolutely needed to have it. He pairs that with some denim shorts he’s pretty sure Bill left at his house, top it off with his nice glasses with the blue plastic frames and he feels ready to show his face in public, even if he’s not so happy with the green braces he’d gone for in his last time in the orthodontist’s chair. 

His dad nor is mom are home, so he just snags his keys from the hook by the front door and whistles his way out to his truck. Today would be a good day, he’s set his mind to it by now. He hasn’t had one of those in a while, and he assumes he must deserve it.

He turns the key and the car sputters into ignition. Of course he fiddles with finding the end of his aux cord, the loud glitching, fizzling sound tells him he's connected. He sets his Spotify to go and finally backs out of the driveway way, bopping his head around to the music.

Well you didn't wake up this morning 'cause you didn't go to bed  
You were watching the whites of your eyes turn red  
The calendar on your wall was ticking the days off  
You've been reading some old letters  
You smile and think how much you've changed  
All the money in the world couldn't buy back those days

The song by The The, one from probably his parents' generation always makes him nostalgic, but the smooth beat never fails to make him jam, it feels good, feels right. He taps beats out on his steering wheel all the way to the arcade. See, this place might not be traditionally cool, but it's pretty damn cool in Richie's book. 

It's really one of his only exceptions, he thinks most other things he does or wears are traditionally cool. He's gained a decent Instagram following so that's oughta be something. He's cooler online, in theory when you don't actually need to deal with him. He knows this, which is why Bill is pretty much the only person he'll annoy into hanging out with him. Even Stan the Man has his limits, but Bill wasn't someone to get upset with people easily. 

He frowns at the thought of his fiercely loyal best friend who's not dancing in the passenger seat next to Richie where he belongs. He pushes the thought out of his mind and finally pulls his car key out, the car rumbling back to sleep as fast as it'd woken up. He locks it behind him, kicking his toe on the edge of the sidewalk before stepping up onto it, something he's done since he was a kid. Supposedly for "good luck". But maybe today it means something, as The The sang;

This is the day your life will surely change  
This is the day when things fall into place

A more familiar, home-like feeling consumes him as he opens the door to the arcade. Even the ugly 80s pattern on the ground makes him feel more like himself. What stops him in his tracks and freezes the warmth from his homey vibe is that he sees someone standing at his usual game.

Richie only plays street fighter. The locals at the arcade know this, it's the only game he considers himself to be good at and he doesn't have the attention span to learn the mechanics of another one. But there's a boy about his age already at the game.

"Hey- uh. You think you'll be done soon? That game is my jam," he says, his hands planted in his pockets but he forces himself to keep his eyes up as the teen turns to him.

He has blue eyes, blond hair, symmetrical features, and straight teeth. Pretty much everything Richie wishes he was naturally. Or what he assumes everyone else wishes he was. Internal conflict with outside influences. That's what Bill says, Bill seems to get everyone's problems (except for his own). But he's not here right now. It's just Richie and this handsome stranger that could have been him in another life.

“I mean. There’s a two player option,” the mysterious blond boy responds sharply, chewing his tongue as he’s clearly in the thick of the game. It’s not an unkind invitation, but it’s not a warm one either. Nonetheless, Richie stands at the other controls, pulling a few tokens from his pocket, he always has a stash of them.

When the teen finally is victorious in the round, he turns to face Richie, which makes him suddenly nervous. Damnit, Rich, do you want to be him or flirt with him? He asks himself.

“I’m Connor, by the way. I don’t live around here,” that explains it, but why would someone like him be in a town like Derry? “I’m visiting family for the early summer, you know how it is.” he doesn’t, but Connor doesn’t need to know that.

His eyes aren’t curious, but his hair is shiny and his complexion is even and Richie can’t help but wring his hands together all the way up until his hands are on the buttons of the old game. Leaned over it in his usual groove.

“You weren’t lying when you said this was your jam,” Connor has this smile. It doesn’t look real. Almost like the smokescreen smiles put on by celebrities. Fake or not, it’s straight and white and attractive (haha). And for a moment, Connor seems like an okay guy. Not to mention his white hoodie, decorated with chic red roses and almost unreadable print.

The only ugly thing about him, Richie decides, is when he opens his mouth when someone calls him. His tone is even more clipped than when Richie had approached him, and he cusses about as liberally as Richie does but it’s clearly at or about someone in specific. Richie isn’t one for unnecessary confrontation, so he pulls his tickets from the bottom of the game.

“Alright. I- I u have gotta head out, but that was fun,” he says quickly, only being acknowledged with a nod. On his way out of the arcade he hears the call end with a quick “Love you!” as if that made any sense at all.

That boy could have been Richie in another life, but fuck Richie is glad that he’s himself in this timeline.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends Bill another text. “Yeah, you’re the only person i can play games with.”

He gets a quick “why?” and his throat tenses up, weighing the idea of telling Bill that short story and the bigger realization that had come with it, but instead; “I’m way too competitive”. Maybe it’s because it’s so small. Or maybe, it’s because it was that big.

**Author's Note:**

> pls share this with people im really excited to write something finally


End file.
